Vivid in its details, but the self-consciously intellectual narrative fails to engage.
Dreamlike fragmentary chapters evoke a bleak post-apocalypse world, one where capitalism is the enemy and the collective the ideal.
Noted French author Volodine (Naming the Jungle, 1996, etc.) is better at describing the desolate world he evokes than at making the plight of his characters credible—or the ideas that ostensibly shape his ambitious tale. Each of the 49 short chapters, called “narracts—novelistic snapshot(s),” has to do with a brief incident involving one of 49 different characters, whose lives occasionally intersect. These people inhabit a world devastated by a disaster that’s never precisely defined, though the implications are that it had to do with nuclear fission. The disaster, in any case, has left the world with a minuscule population, a Mars-like landscape, and a food shortage. Survivors rear chickens in abandoned apartments, head out to cities where explorers retreat to their winter camp at “number 12 on the Rue du Cormatin,” or follow abandoned rail tracks that hug the shoreline. The third “narract” introduces Laetitia Scheidmann, who, along with the other immortal crones, has been sequestered by veterinarians at the Spotted Wheat Nursing Home. There, though it’s forbidden, she decides to fashion a grandson. She collects scraps of cloth and lint, presses them into an embryonic ball, then fertilizes and gestates it with the help of her fellow crones. They hope that Will, the grandson, will revive radicalism and revolutionary action, but, decades later, Will, instead, has restored capitalism, a crime for which they sentence him to death and order a firing squad to execute him. But before that happens, they are overcome by memories mixed with hallucinations from the pipes they smoke. Will, who develops a hideous skin disease, is the narrator of these stories, told to his grandmothers as the population drastically declines, gas-emitting meteorites become more frequent, and all forms of life begin to die.
Vivid in its details, but the self-consciously intellectual narrative fails to engage.Pub Date: Sept. 15, 2004
ISBN: 0-8032-4672-2
Page Count: 180
Publisher: Univ. of Nebraska
Review Posted Online: May 19, 2010
Kirkus Reviews Issue: July 1, 2004
BOOK REVIEW
BOOK REVIEW
BOOK REVIEW
The Brat Pack meets The Bacchae in this precious, way-too-long, and utterly unsuspenseful town-and-gown murder tale. A bunch of ever-so-mandarin college kids in a small Vermont school are the eager epigones of an aloof classics professor, and in their exclusivity and snobbishness and eagerness to please their teacher, they are moved to try to enact Dionysian frenzies in the woods. During the only one that actually comes off, a local farmer happens upon them—and they kill him. But the death isn't ruled a murder—and might never have been if one of the gang—a cadging sybarite named Bunny Corcoran—hadn't shown signs of cracking under the secret's weight. And so he too is dispatched. The narrator, a blank-slate Californian named Richard Pepen chronicles the coverup. But if you're thinking remorse-drama, conscience masque, or even semi-trashy who'll-break-first? page-turner, forget it: This is a straight gee-whiz, first-to-have-ever-noticed college novel—"Hampden College, as a body, was always strangely prone to hysteria. Whether from isolation, malice, or simple boredom, people there were far more credulous and excitable than educated people are generally thought to be, and this hermetic, overheated atmosphere made it a thriving black petri dish of melodrama and distortion." First-novelist Tartt goes muzzy when she has to describe human confrontations (the murder, or sex, or even the ping-ponging of fear), and is much more comfortable in transcribing aimless dorm-room paranoia or the TV shows that the malefactors anesthetize themselves with as fate ticks down. By telegraphing the murders, Tartt wants us to be continually horrified at these kids—while inviting us to semi-enjoy their manneristic fetishes and refined tastes. This ersatz-Fitzgerald mix of moralizing and mirror-looking (Jay McInerney shook and poured the shaker first) is very 80's—and in Tartt's strenuous version already seems dated, formulaic. Les Nerds du Mal—and about as deep (if not nearly as involving) as a TV movie.
Pub Date: Sept. 16, 1992
ISBN: 1400031702
Page Count: 592
Publisher: Knopf
Review Posted Online: May 19, 2010
Kirkus Reviews Issue: July 1, 1992
BOOK REVIEW
BOOK REVIEW
SEEN & HEARD
SEEN & HEARD
SEEN & HEARD
Miller makes Homer pertinent to women facing 21st-century monsters.
A retelling of ancient Greek lore gives exhilarating voice to a witch.
“Monsters are a boon for gods. Imagine all the prayers.” So says Circe, a sly, petulant, and finally commanding voice that narrates the entirety of Miller’s dazzling second novel. The writer returns to Homer, the wellspring that led her to an Orange Prize for The Song of Achilles (2012). This time, she dips into The Odyssey for the legend of Circe, a nymph who turns Odysseus’ crew of men into pigs. The novel, with its distinctive feminist tang, starts with the sentence: “When I was born, the name for what I was did not exist.” Readers will relish following the puzzle of this unpromising daughter of the sun god Helios and his wife, Perse, who had negligible use for their child. It takes banishment to the island Aeaea for Circe to sense her calling as a sorceress: “I will not be like a bird bred in a cage, I thought, too dull to fly even when the door stands open. I stepped into those woods and my life began.” This lonely, scorned figure learns herbs and potions, surrounds herself with lions, and, in a heart-stopping chapter, outwits the monster Scylla to propel Daedalus and his boat to safety. She makes lovers of Hermes and then two mortal men. She midwifes the birth of the Minotaur on Crete and performs her own C-section. And as she grows in power, she muses that “not even Odysseus could talk his way past [her] witchcraft. He had talked his way past the witch instead.” Circe’s fascination with mortals becomes the book’s marrow and delivers its thrilling ending. All the while, the supernatural sits intriguingly alongside “the tonic of ordinary things.” A few passages coil toward melodrama, and one inelegant line after a rape seems jarringly modern, but the spell holds fast. Expect Miller’s readership to mushroom like one of Circe’s spells.
Miller makes Homer pertinent to women facing 21st-century monsters.Pub Date: April 10, 2018
ISBN: 978-0-316-55634-7
Page Count: 400
Publisher: Little, Brown
Review Posted Online: Jan. 22, 2018
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Feb. 1, 2018
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